


The Pupil

by zvezda



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, MxM - Freeform, NSFW, PWP, Smut, homoerotic, mindfuckery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-28 21:18:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3870100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zvezda/pseuds/zvezda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The slow agony of waiting.  Anticipation. Horror and finally, bliss. Pre-STEM, Ruben age 18.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Marcelo Jimenez held himself upright as he entered the quiet, fragrant sanctuary of his gifted student. Fragrance was perhaps a kinder term for the wall of scent that greeted him upon encroaching the door.

Hesitating only once, he lifted his hand and lightly knocked.

A moment of pause - of bedsprings creaking, feet touching the floor and floorboards protesting as the man he came to see crossed to pull on the hooded cotton robe he wore when he was alone.

“Enter,” was the final cue that permitted him inside.

Once Mark touched the doorknob, he knew there was very little opportunity to walk away now. He couldn’t begin to pretend it was just an accidental knock - no one came this way if they could avoid it. The scent alone was enough to deter most idle wanderers.

His presence hardly needed to be specifically announced.

Only Marcelo Jimenez came here. Only he could be so welcomed into Ruben’s nightmarish reality.

And alleviate some of the pain there.

Ruben was rigid with pain. The sticky, freezing silk sheets clung to his damp, mottled flesh like a poorly constructed second-skin.

He breathed as evenly as possible. He’d been waiting, languishing for an eternity in hours, for Dr. Jimenez to begin the procedure. He had personally assumed the role of caregiver and physician and only he would do.

He had refused skin grafts or treatments. Only some help in managing the pain. Yet no amount of pills or potions could take it away. There were times that his entire body seemed to throb and blister anew, and he could only lie and gasp through it.

Then, at last, the knock.

He rose from the clinging sheets, peeling them off. He went to seize the robe from the coat hanger and pull it around himself, shivering as he croaked, "Enter.“

He knew how Marcelo would look at him. Clutching the robe closed, quaking in the middle of the hardwood floor, his hooded eyes gleaming back at him with furtive intensity. That first initial look that drenched Ruben with shame, because it was nothing but pity.

But never disgust.

Never, ever that.

The pressure in his chest slowly alleviated as Dr. Jimenez removed his white overcoat and hung it on the coat rack. He closed the door behind him. The lock clicked.

"Are you ready?” He was rolling up his sleeves.

Ruben swallowed thickly. "Yes.“ He felt caged whenever they were alone. It was a confusing, terrifying, wonderful feeling.

"Good. Take it off.”

A whimper lodged into his throat, before he peeled the robe off. He couldn’t cross his arms. He could only leave the fabric crumpled on the floor and stand trembling, exposed, naked and ugly. Even with the air conditioner cranked on high, his flesh blistered. Major 2nd degree burns over sixty percent of his body. Nothing covered them save for the bandages that looped snugly around his head and face.

Marcelo’s clinical gaze scoured his body, tightening the rolls of his shirt sleeves at his elbows, before he closed the distance and pressed the cool smoothness of his wrist against his brow.

“You don’t feel that warm. But it is best that you stay vigilant about your health.” He nodded to the door - offering a glimpse of a second, dimmer room. "Come on. Let’s begin.“

Ruben moved into the next room. There was a padded hospital chair, at an incline, and the familiar experimental equipment sterilized and ready. He could barely keep his teeth from chattering as tiny thrills of anticipation rocked through him.

"We've proven this before - that sexual pleasure can alleviate some of the most intense kinds of pain. Can provide the body with great amounts of oxytocin, which is proven to help bonding, lower blood pressure, alleviate pain… even the pain of childbirth.”

Marcelo’s voice soothed him. Ruben allowed himself to relax a little as the familiar cadence of his gravelly voice introduced familiar information.

“By stimulating the parts of the brain that experience pleasure, oxytocin can be theoretically manufactured in greater amounts - providing longer orgasms, and then to longer effect of pain relief.”

He stared at the machinery. His features twisted in agony and disgust and apprehension before he moved to the chair and turned, lowering himself to the freezing plastic cushions.

He settled his arms onto the arm rests, his lips pursed momentarily before his gaze rose to meet Marcelo’s. 

For a moment, that monstrous veneer stole over the frightened young man’s features - chilling Dr. Jiminez to his core.

“Do it.”

Marcelo gave a curt nod, the chiseled lines of his face deepening in the darkness. He stood in front of Ruben as he secured his right wrist to the arm of the chair with a soft, cotton-sided strap. Then the left. Then he slid beside him and slowly, carefully unwrapped his almost mummified head. Gently gathering the sweat-dampened lengths of cloth and dropping them into the waste basket to be replaced by others. The new gleaming glass shell that covered his brain was slowly unveiled.

“You seem to have healed well here.” His fingertips slowly traced the outline of neat, black stitches that fixes the sleek surface to his skull along with a series of hard, surgical staples.

Ruben trembled, his breath shuddering.

He was convinced he was being caressed, admired. Ruben's idea, Marcelo's handiwork.

He melted into the chair, his bare thighs squeaking on the surface. If he could sweat at all, it would have trickled down the naked track of his spine, pooling beneath him.

“Sit up, Ruben.” The stern tone stunned him. He rose from his slouch to straighten his spine. 

His body protested and he let out a low squealing groan at the discomfort.

Slowly the apparatus moved over the top of his head. His instinctive fear screamed. But he closed his eyes, concealing the shudder as Dr. Jiminez secured the bolts in place - into specialized threaded bolt holes permanently drilled into Ruben’s skull. 

The discomfort was nothing compared to the constant agony of his condition: entire body scarred through several layers of tissue - but the pain was real enough to Ruben, even if the nerves were all scorched away.

“I want you to relax now, Ruben.” Something loud clicked into place with the finality of a coffin nail.

Tears scalded tracks down his ruined cheeks. 

“Ruben?”

Not like this…

“Ruben. I haven’t penetrated your cortex yet. What’s the matter?”

“Just do it.”

“I cannot in good conscience–”

“DO AS I SAY!” His nails bit into the armrests, his lips tightening as he choked back a sob, unable to throw his head or move. He could only stare at the cracked reflection in the metal file cabinet directly in front of him, seething at the wretched sight of a naked, burned man tied to a chair.

He saw Jiminez, too. Hovering over the machinery like a monochromatic vulture.

He squeezed his eyes shut again, whining until he heard the electrical snap of the probe just above his head… and then the high-toned drone as it slid through one of the holes positioned in the glass case, to burrow deep, plunging into rich grey tissue.

He opened his eyes again, feeling, hearing, tasting the metallic high-pitched squeal as measured volts leapt into his mind, through his groin, through his fingertips and toes.

“Relax, Ruben… we’ll make it better for awhile. You and I.”

One latex-covered finger tip caressed his damp cheek, collected the wetness there. 

Then probed his lips.

Obediently he sucked at his own salt, writhing as pleasure thrummed directly through him until he saw only white and briefly, blessedly, felt no pain.


	2. "Continue."

Marcelo had always prided himself on having nice hands.  Manicured nails, perfectly squared, smooth skin.  His face told another story: riddled with the caligraphy of age, of toiling away, hours spent with his sins weighing upon his conscience.

Though,  Marcelo Jimenez thought, there were always more, while he watched his pupil arch beneath them, scarred torso stretching with breath, caged bone, flesh, sinew.  A tortured keening whine hissed past vocal cords ruined by smoke.

“Shh,”  he whispered, soothing the ointment over his lower back. “Relax, Ruben… there’s a good boy.”

Ice-chips glittered toward him, the curled black lip showing the whiteness of his teeth.  How he loathed that.  That animal stare that set his blood to his face, brightening him crimson.  Always cowed by that look, tonight Jimenez felt himself to be more resilient.

“Yes, I’m quite sorry.  I only meant–”

“I know what you meant,”  –mildly, “just  _continue_.”

Slowly repositioning himself for comfort, Marcelo returned to his work.  Frequently, Ruben became riddled with terrible joint and back pain.  Being so hunched due to his childhood trauma, it was clear that the damage was more than simply on the surface.  Marcelo suspected his pain was psychosomatic, but he was close-lipped with his theory.

He couldn’t deny he took some guilty pleasure in having the terrifying young man at his mercy like this.  To feel the smoother skin, left unravaged by fire, caress his back, feel tremors like butterfly wings beneath his fingertips–

Once more, he applied pressure into his back and shoulders.  The tissue was pliant, but the muscles beneath were not.  He was not physically fit, nor was he particularly willowy.  But he was a product of unfortunate events.  He would never be handsome, and even if a woman could look past his appearance, it was his personality that would provide the spikier barrier.

Ruben exhaled, his scarred cheek turned against the pillow, his arms at his sides. He closed his eyes while Marcelo continued, small, shameless moans pressed out of his lungs while each tense muscle was tended to.

Lower and lower, until Marcelo reached again for the ointment and paused to listen to Ruben’s breathing.  

Rather than leave the premesis of the bed, he permitted himself to linger.  The young man’s face had suffered, a sad thing to behold - between his father, mother, and sister, Ruben would have grown to be most lovely of his family.  He could still see it in the sharp-angled jaw, his features so austere, like the rich name he had inherited - a ruined prince.

A rigid ball of iron heat began to take shape in his lower belly.  His fascination with the Victoriano boy had bloomed and evolved for the last several years.  Hardened by tragedy, driven by a madness that horrified and entranced Marcelo, Ruben had quickly become the focus of his thoughts and, indeed, his very life.

He hovered closer, hearing the click of his own throat as he swallowed.  And it was precisely then Ruben’s one visible eye snapped open and refocused and pinned Marcelo, searching and examining and analyzing, and something changed in that gaze which convinced Marcelo that he knew, he knew it, and it was unravelling before his eyes, this professional facade he’d maintained to save face in front of a madman.

He had always known, though.  It was simply disarming to be rendered helpless by that look.

“You stopped.”

“I wasn’t sure if you were up for anything more… strenuous.  I thought you’d fallen asleep. You need your rest.”

A grimace of displeasure. Followed by a steady hand reaching for his, guiding.  "I know what I need, Jimenez.“

His heart leapt into his throat, as the burnt man eased his hips from the bed to guide his touch beneath.  

To the stunningly hot, hard anatomy pulsing with Ruben’s racing heart.  

"You know I only let you touch me,” exhaled, moaned, pleading.  His face turned away; Marcelo knew it to be shame to speak that way.

Marcelo swallowed again, nodding, as he slowly, teasingly began to rub him. Even through the thin cotton cloth, he felt every nuance, every vein.

He leaned over him, his hand trapped to the task, feeling powerful again - in control of the lost, desperate pupil in need of his guidance.  He felt the man’s resistance, his tension, fade again, as his hips moved.

“Oh  _god_ ,”  Marcelo moaned softly, pressing his forehead to his shoulder. And kissed it, again, and once more, as Ruben’s breaths caught, and quickened, arching his back as he clutched blindly at the pillows, gliding his fingertips down the waistband to properly seize and stroke and relieve him of his aches.  

“–Jimenez… fuck…”  Muffled confessions against the pillow, as he rutted into his hand with jerky, uncertain movements.  

Jimenez heard his voice say words he hadn’t uttered beyond this room:

“ _Cum for me. Cum for me. Cum for me._ ”

His wish was granted - the burnt man’s shriek catching against his other hand as he bucked, helplessly weakened, and writhed in pleasure-agony.

“Jimenez…  _Jimenez_ …”  

They rolled.  Ruben was ferocious.  He bit when he kissed, pulled when he grabbed.  But Marcelo understood why.  He winced and shuddered when he raked his tie loose and pulled his shirt open.  

“More.  MORE.”

He opened up to Marcelo, in a blur of hazy, whispered direction. All he could see was that hollow, empty, sad gaze that he’d found so entrancing before - briefly alive, lit with desire - so that later, when he thought about fucking Ruben Victoriano, he would only remember one thing.

_What’s one more?_

**Author's Note:**

> Should I continue this as a series of one shots? Perhaps the fun moves to the bed, hm?


End file.
